[It has been so long since he has worn a mask; longer still that it has cracked and fractured so easily under the gaze of another. Jaskier has prided himself on being a man -- god -- whatever -- that had no need for misdirection nor lies. Not even a big of fog over his intentions.
He was the sun. Direct. Forthcoming. Bright.
Yet he feels cold now; hidden behind some other's shadow.
Truth always finds its man, as they say. It cuts through to the heart of things, just as easily and thoroughly as Geralt's sword.
Jaskier takes Verity's hand in his, holding it tight. His palm is clammy, where Verity's is warm.] Something is wrong. And I don't want to learn what it is. I am, in fact, terrified of learning what it is.
no subject
He was the sun. Direct. Forthcoming. Bright.
Yet he feels cold now; hidden behind some other's shadow.
Truth always finds its man, as they say. It cuts through to the heart of things, just as easily and thoroughly as Geralt's sword.
Jaskier takes Verity's hand in his, holding it tight. His palm is clammy, where Verity's is warm.] Something is wrong. And I don't want to learn what it is. I am, in fact, terrified of learning what it is.